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A Funk Filled Night Before Father’s Day

I drove up to my childhood home. It was Father’s Day.

I wrote something in a card, for my father, that had a print of two people riding horses near a big wall of stone. It did not adequately portray my feelings for him. I wonder if I will ever be able to give him that.

A peacock with a long tail took a jaunt down the middle of the street as I sealed the envelope quickly and left my car to rest as I visited two people who are mine.

I gave him arugula seeds for the garden. They were wrapped in The Beachcomber, a local Long Beach newspaper.

I ended my card with “Daddy, I love you to the moon and back.”

The night before I went on a date. He brought me to downtown LA. We took an Uber so that we could drink freely. On our way up, driving on the 110 North, he commented on my ring as he touched the smooth lapis stone. His hand rested there for a moment.

We ate Greek food, ordering a bunch of starters at a restaurant that had big glass doors and mismatching plates. We talked. We paid. We walked.

He made fun of the young history that surrounded us, calling buildings that are not even 100 years old, old. We walked in the wrong direction, and then we walked in the right direction. He stopped me. We kissed. He told me I was doing great. I wondered how he knew that I was wondering.

The venue was in the midst of young history and dimly lit. The woman checking tickets had pink hair and impeccable posture, as she rested her drink, casually, on top of her head, stating she was too lazy to put it anywhere else. She was Irish and Italian. Her accent was Irish.

Jamison on the rocks was his order, Lagunitas was mine. We watched the opening groups, bobbing our heads and swaying slightly. Another round and our slight imitation of dancing, became more like dancing itself.

As the next band got ready, he spoke with a man with well manicured eye brows. They were both in the music business. As was the girlfriend of the man with well manicured eyebrows. They talked business I listened. My date was kind enough to refer to me. The man with well manicured eyebrows told me I looked familiar. I knew this was a lie. I told him I worked in a sober living. There was silence as I took a sip of my beer.

The next band started. The band he came to see. I could see why he liked them. We connected, tipsy and high from the music, this connection felt easy. We danced without any interest of getting too close to one another. Our limbs were similar in that they flailed when dancing became real. He kissed me. I kissed him. The set ended.

We met people from Nebraska as we waited for the next set.

A woman began to sing. She was beautiful and we both fawned over her. I had a dance off with an older gentleman with long gray hair. My date went out for air, I continued to dance and fawn. I caught him watching me when he came back. We left soon after.

The Uber driver was a comedian named Walter. He showed us one of his bits on his phone. We smiled. He did not make an excuse to touch my hand now. It simply happened. In between Walter’s anecdotes we kissed. He complained that I lived too far away from Downtown. When I say he, I mean my date, not Walter. We slept in my bed that night and talked openly. Alcohol had chased away our fear of intimacy.

“I’m moving back in November. LA doesn’t feel like home to me.” A distance flooded between us and our fear returned as we tried to ignore what this meant.

In the morning we ate Mexican themed Frittatas and had a hard time speaking because of fatigue and realizations. We parted ways and I went to see two people who were mine and he went to sleep in his own bed and do laundry.


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